Resouled
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dean's got company inside his skin. Sam believes three's a crowd.


_This story first appeared in _Hunting Trips 1 _(2006), from Neon Rainbow Press_  
_With thanks to Wolfpup_

**Resouled**  
K Hanna Korossy

It took Sam three days to catch up to it.

Three days of little sleep, which was probably only fair because he doubted Dean was getting any, either. Three days of reading and rereading Dad's journal and every other exorcism rite they had. Three days of racing the Impala along the increasingly hot trail, because only Dean's body had been hijacked, leaving behind his car.

And a desperate and determined brother.

But whatever it was in Dean hadn't been too worried about being tracked, its path of malicious destruction easy to follow. It didn't seem to care about Sam finding it, or the body it had stolen. Every account Sam had collected along the way was of a Dean with feverish eyes and frenzied motion. The thing inside him was burning up his body, uncaring about sleep or food, probably planning to discard it for another when it wore out. After each failed stop, Sam had driven a little faster.

Until he had reached Rubin, Texas.

Retirees Roger and Fiona Shoemaker had been found bound and beaten in their home. Sam recognized the work. He had walked the police barricade, looking for clues, some sign of where _it _would have gone next.

Instead, he found it still there, watching the fruits of its labor with eyes that weren't Dean's and a smile that just looked _wrong_ on his face.

Sam raised the rock salt-loaded shotgun without hesitation, staring down a barrel at his brother of his own volition for the first time.

It sneered at him. "Took you long enough, Sammy."

"Don't call me that," he said calmly. It was a deception that wouldn't have fooled Dean, but for all the knowledge the creature seemed to share with him, Dean had twenty-two years more experience reading Sam. "Sorry if I kept you waiting."

"Not me, _him_." Another not-right smile. It went with the flushed cheeks and hollow eyes, and Sam didn't let himself wonder if Dean's spirit was doing any better than his failing body. Three days of possession; Sam didn't know how sane he would have been after that.

"You're coming with me," Sam said, hitching the shotgun back toward the car.

"Or what, you'll shoot him? Again?" it mocked with a smile that had none of Dean's warmth.

The barb's only power was in the fact it had been stolen from Dean's memory. Sam's jaw rippled. "If I have to." He was moving closer. He had to hurry, before they were spotted by police, before Dean wore down completely.

"Do you think he'll forgive you this time?"

Sam smiled. "You don't know my brother very well, do you?"

He was close enough now to see the tell in Dean's eyes before _it_ moved. Recognition let him move even faster. The shotgun spun in his hand, butt coming up to contact with his brother's temple. Sam pulled the blow, but it was hard enough to do what it needed. Dean, and the creature inside him, crumpled at Sam's feet.

And as he gathered his brother up to carry him back to the car, Sam dared to breathe deeply, just once, for the first time in three days.

00000

He paid more for an actual hotel room this time, with walls that were thicker than cardboard, and real oak furniture. The chair he had secured Dean to was already groaning under the powerful assault, yanked with all the force of a body that didn't care what damage it did to itself. Sam had found cuffs in the Impala's trunk – of course – for Dean's hands. He had tied off his ankles, padding the rope with strips of towels, but already they were stained with blood. The gag was added after the screaming began, Sam watching carefully to make sure the creature didn't take advantage of it to suffocate its host. It hated Sam with a special passion, whether as its captor or the person its host cared most for, and Sam wouldn't have put it past the thing to kill Dean just to spite them both.

Three was a crowd. It was time to get rid of their uninvited guest.

He laid down the salt circle, making it big enough to stay unbroken even if the chair was knocked over. Eyes full of hatred watched him as Sam consecrated the ground with holy water and blessed oil. It sizzled like grease on a hot stove when he marked Dean's chest with it, too, and Sam worked to keep from flinching at the sound. He had looked for signs of Dean in the black eyes before, but was grateful not to see any now. If he thought about what his brother was enduring, he would never get through what had to be done.

Sam had collected along the way the herbs and tools he would need, and he laid them out now like a surgeon his instruments, noting impassively the flicker of fear it elicited. "It'll be over soon, Dean," he couldn't help but murmur, not caring if it heard, too, although Sam regretted it when Dean's body heaved against the restraints with new fervor. It wouldn't get free, but it could tear muscle or break or dislocate bones before Sam was done. He moved faster.

Equipment prepared, he settled cross-legged on the floor outside the circle, in front of Dean, and began.

It was a long chant, with the application of various sacred objects and herbs at appropriate points. He had chosen it for its age and history, based on the Latin the creature had spoken when it had first taken Dean. Sam started reading, not looking up, unwilling to meet Dean's crazed eyes or see the corded muscles as his body whiplashed against the chair. It creaked ominously but held, even when the creature succeeded in knocking it on its side.

Sam jerked back involuntarily at the crash, almost losing his place. He heard the groan through the gag, the first sign of pain he had witnessed, and wondered momentarily if that part was Dean, before shoving the idea into the back of his mind. The figure on the chair hadn't stopped bucking, and its flesh smoked where it touched the water on the floor.

Sam kept reading, even when tears blurred his vision.

This had been, in many ways, his fault. The scared and nervous were the ones most open to possession, and Dean would never have fit that category if not for Sam. But the creature had stalked him first, through the house they were supposed to be cleansing, trapping him in a room with a rotting floor. Sam had emptied both barrels at the thing, but it had kept advancing, which was when he had finally yelled for Dean – and promptly fallen through the floor.

Splinters and scratches were all he had gotten. Dean, running to the rescue only to see him disappear with a cry, had panicked, and picked up a new occupant. By the time Sam found a way out of the locked room he had landed in, it had already taken Dean and gone.

Sam had followed, through five states, four crime scenes, and two sleepless nights in the backseat of his brother's car.

The chant was reaching its climax. He had been afraid it was the wrong one and wouldn't work, not sure Dean could survive another attempt, but the creature's reaction was as reassuring as it was frightening. It yanked at the restraints wildly, blood staining the rug under Dean's hands. Human bodies weren't meant to withstand such forces, and the unearthly sounds strained through the gag were as much pain as defiance now. Sam winced at the hollow knock of Dean's head against the back of the chair, but there was nothing he could do but finish what he'd started. He read as fast as he could without risking mangling the words, tossing pinches of herbs and sprinkles of oil, and pretending he didn't hear the muffled cries that followed each.

He reached the end. The final words burst out of him like a rebellious yell, all his anger and hatred focused on banishing the thing that had taken and hurt his brother.

Dean's body arched as if it had touched a live wire, a scream tangling in the gag.

No visible cloud or darkness tugged from his straining chest. One moment he was pulled by unseen forces, wind whipping through the room in final fury…

…the next it was gone and everything went still. Including Dean, dropped like a broken doll back to the floor.

Sam dropped the book and lurched through the salt ring to his brother's side. "Dean!"

His brother's breaths were short drags of air that made Sam's chest constrict with empathy. Dean's head lolled in Sam's frantic grasp as he undid the gag, then took off the cuffs. The stained ropes followed, then Sam pulled his brother's limp body up, arms under Dean's knees and back, and heaved him onto the edge of the nearest bed.

Dean didn't stir, only his twitching limbs and the uneven rise and fall of his chest proof he was even alive.

Sam slid a hand under the sweat-soaked hair, lifting enough to coax some water past dried and cracking lips. "Dean, can you hear me?" His voice was as broken as Dean's respiration. "Hold on, man."

He did triage, cataloguing damage: mangled wrists and ankles, what looked like maybe a broken bone in Dean's left hand, superficial burns, dislocated shoulder, and the crusted lump on his forehead from the shotgun. Surprisingly little, considering the abuse he had been through those last days, but the toll had been paid in less tangible ways. Dean looked wasted, energy sapped. His eyes rolled behind heavy lids to some nightmare that played in his head, and strained muscles spasmed and shivered.

"All right, Dean, just one more thing and then we can get you cleaned up, all right?" Sam molded slightly trembling hands around the popped shoulder joint. "Almost over," he promised, gritted his teeth, and pulled.

Dean jolted as the bone slid back into place, groaning.

His hand still resting on the swollen shoulder, Sam crouched beside the bed, putting them at eye level. "Dean?"

Dull hazel eyes opened halfway to stare at him with questionable awareness. "Sam…" Dean breathed, blinking heavily.

Joy made his eyes water. "Hey," Sam said softly, sliding his grip down to the elbow he could squeeze without hurting. Joy and a lot of worry. "It's gone now. We're okay."

Dean grimaced. "Sucked," he whispered. He tried to move his arm, succeeding only in an uncoordinated flop, and clutched at the sheets instead.

Sam laughed. "Yeah. It did." He laid his forearm on top of his brother's, wrapping his hand around Dean's and loosening the clumsy grip. "Give me a minute, I'm gonna put you in the bathtub, okay? Then you can sleep." He wanted to wash off the blood and sweat, and the stink of the creature.

Dean's eyes were closed again. "'M good." His fingers curled over Sam's.

"Yeah, I know you are," Sam said fondly, too near tears again. "But you smell ripe, dude."

Dean's mouth twitched.

He dozed, thankfully oblivious, through Sam cleaning him up, washing away the nightmare along with the blood. The warm water finally eased the lingering tics and tremors, and smoothed some of the lines in Dean's face. Back at the bed, Sam wrapped torn skin, roused Dean to swallow some painkillers despite the face his brother made, and checked his temperature. Warm now. Just Dean now.

Sam rubbed burning eyes, something hard and tight inside him crumbling at the realization it was over, Dean was okay. The upended chair a few feet away, still draped with rope and spotted with blood, seemed almost unreal.

"Don't, Sam."

He raised his head to see Dean looking at him, confusion replaced by serious awareness. Still exhausted, still hurting, but really his brother again. Sam couldn't seem to manage an answer, just shook his head helplessly.

"'S okay. You did good."

And what if he hadn't? He didn't want to be responsible for Dean's life, to watch him suffer, to fight evil over his brother. He didn't want to wake up scared ever again, wondering if that was the day he'd lose Dean for good. He didn't want to do this.

Dean was still watching him; he could feel it, although he didn't look, not until his brother snorted softly. There was a wry sympathy in his eyes as he managed with effort to lift the cover a few inches. "Get up here. You look worse… 'n I do."

Sam stared at him in disbelief. He hadn't had that offer in fifteen years. "Dean…"

The blanket dropped and Dean's head rolled on the pillow. "Fine, never mind."

Sam's mouth flattened, and he kicked off his shoes to crawl in next to his brother, carefully nudging him over to make room. "This doesn't fix anything, Dean," he muttered.

Dean's arm settled over his ribs. He still shivered occasionally, skin warm now but adrenaline still running its course. It wasn't enough to keep him awake. "Mmm-hmm."

"I still… God, that thing was…"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean breathed against his neck.

He did. He was too tired to fight. Too tired to worry. Dean's arm was as protective as when Sam had been little, and he wondered idly when this had become Dean taking care of him again.

And then Sam Winchester, kick-ass demon hunter and exorcist, curled up against his brother and slept.

**The End**


End file.
